Foreigners
by Vigilante Azael
Summary: Had I, John Watson, known that the case Mycroft presented my flatmate and I that morning would involve foreign terrorists, Moriarty, and werewolves, I would have listened to Sherlock's advice and not let his brother in the door. Then again, maybe not.
1. Chapter 1

**Okey. I was tempted to start a sequel to The Great Game, but so many people are doing that I decided to do something different. Not many people seem to have done anything in this specific Sherlock Holmes canon on supernaturals, so I jumped on the chance to do something relatively new. So yes, there will be werewolves. There might be other supernatural creatures if I get approval from my audience.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock in any way shape or form. If I did, there would be a lot more episodes out a lot sooner.**

If it weren't for the Americans, we wouldn't have gotten into this enormous mess in the first place. Had they stayed in their own country where they belonged, everything would have been normal. Well, as normal as living with Sherlock Holmes can get. Which, in fact, is not normal at all.

Everything started on a sunny Saturday morning. At first, I was completely convinced that the day would be routine. Sherlock was - predictably - bored and caseless, laying on the sofa with a mild look of disapproval on his face that he seemed to direct at the world in general. Unsurprising. London's criminals, in Sherlock's words, had been boring lately.

I glanced at the consulting (sounds strangely like 'sulking') detective occasionally as I made tea in the kitchen. Very few things ran through my mind when I tried to come up with something to do all day. Sarah was going to be gone for the next week or two; she was visiting family around England. I frowned. Having already checked the day's schedule, I knew that the telly wouldn't be any relief. Nothing going on in town… Maybe Lestrade would call with a case. I shook my head quickly. Sherlock was rubbing off on me.

A tap at the door nearly caused me to drop the hot cup of tea I was holding. Maybe the day would bring something interesting. I knew that neither Sherlock nor I were expecting anyone.

"Don't open the door, John," Sherlock said sharply as I stepped out of the kitchen. I paused.

"Why not?"

"Mycroft."

I sighed and continued to the door. If it was Mycroft, he'd get to us eventually, even if Sherlock didn't want him to. Might as well stay on the man's good side. I flinched at a violent crash behind me as I opened the door.

"Good morning," were the first words out of Mycroft's mouth when the door opened. His eyes obviously said 'what was that crash?', though. He looked over my shoulder before I could answer the obvious question. I turned to look also. Sherlock was picking himself up off of the floor. Considering the trail of destruction, he had been trying to reach the door before I did and tripped over the coffee table. Mycroft slowly raised an eyebrow. "Ah."

"Do you want to come in?" I asked, stepping slightly out of the way and further opening the door.

"Of course, thank you," Mycroft stepped inside and placed himself on a couch. He set the large manila envelope he was carrying on the seat beside him. His umbrella stayed in his hand, though. I momentarily wondered why he carried it around all the time, even when there was no sign of rain. A security blanket sort of thing, maybe? I almost snorted with laughter at the thought of Mycroft Holmes needing a security blanket.

"Before you ask, no," Sherlock said petulantly refusing to even look at his brother. Instead he stared at the skull he kept on top the fireplace.

"I know that you have nothing to do right now," Mycroft said, ignoring Sherlock's previous comment. "And I have a problem that I can't exactly take care of myself. You know, leg work. The people I've put on to it can't seem to… remedy the problem."

Sherlock wandered out of the room as if his brother never existed in the first place. I sighed and closed my eyes. What sort of grudge was there between them? Just jealousy? Even then, why would Sherlock be jealous of Mycroft? Possibly a case of sibling rivalry separated them earlier on in life. I sat across from Mycroft.

"I'll take a message if you'd like," I said awkwardly. "Maybe I could get Lestrade to present it to Sherlock as a case?"

"That won't be necessary," Mycroft replied, glancing after his brother. "He'll realize that it's the only thing for him to do at the moment."

"I have plenty of things to do!" Sherlock snapped from one of the back rooms. "And I won't help you. I'm not listening and I'm not involved in this conversation." Living with Sherlock, living with a child. Same difference. Except that Sherlock got into a lot more dangerous trouble than any kid could. Or any ten kids.

"Well, we know that he can hear me, at least. You won't have to repeat anything for him," Mycroft said with a light chuckle.

"So, what's gone wrong?"

"A group of Americans closely affiliated with a terrorist organization have illegally arrived in England. They're too closely watched in their own country, so they moved their operation here. I have a list of names and faces," he indicated the envelope, "and also last known locations. My men are having an extremely hard time tracking them down, though. They know that we are watching them, and they also know how to avoid us."

"Send out more people," Sherlock's voice filtered in from the back. "You'll stumble across someone sooner or later."

Mycroft ignored him.

"In both America and England, the current goal of the organization seems to be gaining access to people in high places for unknown reasons. Several officials in the American government reported assaults by known members of the organization. The strange thing is that assassination was not the goal. Each attempt involved either a loaded syringe or a team of trained dogs accompanying the handlers. We have no information on their intents."

"So you just want Sherlock to track these people down?" I asked. The whole thing seemed a little routine for Mycroft to be coming to his disagreeable younger brother for help.

"Track down, discover intents, get more information on the entire organization, and figure out how these people disappear."

"Disappear?"

"We tried tracking them with CCTV several times, but they disappeared between cameras and never came back. They were just gone, and there were no exits of any sort in the areas. Similar things happened when I sent people after them."

"Strange," I frowned and took a sip of my tea. My mouth gave me the same message that my hands, which were wrapped around the cup, gave me. The drink was still scalding hot.

"The organization seems to be worldwide, but mostly focused in America and Russia. From the little intelligence my people have, the organization seems to be growing rapidly." Mycroft continued. I gave a short mental laugh at the wording of Mycroft's statement. The perceptive man noticed my mirth and paused for a moment before going on. "There seems to be no intent or purpose for that organization other than the strange assaults on important people."

"Maybe they're bored and want to bother you," Sherlock offered in an unhelpful and sarcastic tone. He seemed to have a lot of opinions and input for someone not listening to and not involved in the conversation.

"America has sent over a team to deal with them, but openly denied it when I attempted to contact them about working together. Apparently they don't want to be agreeable right now. Or the team is working on their own. Which I doubt, considering their orderliness and methods."

I saw Sherlock suddenly standing by the entrance to the kitchen, pretending to be involved in looking at a point somewhere above my head. He was bored and realized that Mycroft had something interesting for him. But I knew that he would deny it with all his might if confronted.

The moment Mycroft left, Sherlock pounced on the manila envelope, scrambling to open it and immediately spreading the papers around him so that he could see them all at once. I held back a smile at the contradiction that was my flat mate.

"There's only ten known operatives in England," Sherlock announced almost immediately. "Almost always sighted in groups of at least two. Why can't my dear brother's goons find them if that's the case?"

"Apparently they know how to become invisible."

"We don't have that kind of technology. That can't be it." Sherlock said shortly, loath to give me any of his attention. His eyes glittered with the elated light that always appeared in them during a challenge.

"Still, why is this so important?" I asked, despite the fact that I expected Sherlock not to reply. I understood that the situation was strange, but there seemed to be little real immediate threat.

"Neighbor," Sherlock's reply was so quick and clipped that I nearly missed it. _Neighbor?_

"What neighbor?" I asked. The 221a flat below us had been empty ever since I knew of its existence. Maybe someone across the street? In the building beside us? I waited for a while, but Sherlock did not answer. "Is there any way I can help?"

"Neighbor," Sherlock repeated, louder this time. I expected that was all he would give me. After a moment's consideration, I stood and exited the flat, nearly running into Mrs. Hudson.

"Sorry. Good morning," I apologized and greeted, backing up a step.

"Oh, hello dear. I've been in such a rush this morning, you know, with that pleasant young gentleman suddenly deciding to move into that one flat," She said, slightly flustered. "He wanted everything done right then, of course he was very polite about it, but still. Always in such a rush."

"So we have a neighbor in 221a?" I asked, my eyebrows shooting up. Sherlock knew on such short notice? He hadn't even looked out the window this morning, much less snooped around on the neighbors.

"Oh yes. Such a polite young man, reminds me of that detective friend who is always visiting Sherlock. The dear," She smiled softly, putting her hands together. "Now if you don't mind at all, I must be going. Paperwork, you know."

"Ah, where could I find him? I'd love to get acquainted," That's what Sherlock must have meant by "neighbor." Information. But why? Did it really matter that some normal 'boring' person had moved into the dingy basement flat? Honestly, after knowing that Moriarty could get into that flat, and actually _had_, I would not want to live there. Even if he could probably get into 221b just as easily, the fact that he _hadn't _was comforting.

"Oh, he's downstairs, already moving in. Like I said, always in a rush," Mrs. Hudson smiled and took a step towards the stairs. "I'll be seeing you."

I watched her go, and then slowly meandered down the stairs, noting that the door to our building was propped open. Usually, Mrs. Hudson made sure that it was closed and locked. Most likely she left it open so that our neighbor could move in. I peered out the door. There was a small silver compact car parked at the curb, but no truck to carry furniture. I continued down the stairs.

The door of 221a was open just a crack, as if the owner had stepped inside to grab something quickly before he left. I knocked lightly on the door. "Hello, is anyone in there?"

Instantly, the door was jerked open. A young man, probably late twenties-early thirties stood in the doorway, glaring at me with piercing dark eyes. He was dressed in tight ripped jeans and a casual t-shirt, and looked like he belonged in some rock band. Before I could say anything, he spoke, interrupting my thoughts. "Can I help you?"

He was an American.

**Comments and critiques will be highly appreciated!**


	2. The Game Is On

**I've had this done for over week now, but kept playing with it and trying to get it longer and more coherent. I don't think I succeeded, especially in the length part. This chapter just didn't want to be much more than 2,000 words. Anyway, THANK YOU SO MUCH to those of you who put this on your alerts/favorites! I love you guys!**

**MeggyMooMoo: Thanks ^^**

**PhantomInspector: I was not and still am not sure I can pull off supernatural in Sherock's universe. I'll do my best, though.**

I was shocked nearly speechless for a moment as the implications of the accent and the hardly visible flash of a big dog behind the man. My mind instantaneously exploded with a plethora of questions regarding the coincidence. Mycroft's case about terrorist Americans and dogs, and then an American with a dog moves in downstairs. Could it really be a coincidence? _There must be some reasonable explanation._ I decided. Then I thought better of it. _Sherlock must have directed me here for a reason. How would he know, anyway? _

"I-I'm John Watson. I live upstairs in 221b. I just wanted to… ah, welcome you here," I said awkwardly. The man stared at me for a moment, as if sizing me up. There was something cold in those eyes, like repressed anger. I kept my gaze steady. Abruptly, the man stuck out his hand for a shake. I obliged, only after hesitating slightly.

"You're from the other flat, right?" The man's voice sounded slightly strained. Then he suddenly broke into a fake smile. It was hardly more than a show of teeth. "I'm Lucas Lucifer. Sorry if I act rude, this country is just a bit overwhelming for me."

"No, it's all right," Sherlock seemed to have wanted information, and I wasn't about to back down from the challenge. "Do you need any help unloading or unpacking or anything? I'm not busy at all today and I'd love to help." Lucifer sighed and glanced back into his darkened flat. There was no sign of the dog I had glimpsed.

"I guess you could, I mean I'd appreciate that. A little help would be welcome." Lucifer replied slowly. He half turned and peered behind the door. "I'm mostly just loading things in from my car." A loud thump echoed from inside Lucifer's apartment, and a tired and annoyed expression surfaced momentarily on the man's face. Mrs. Hudson was right, he did look like Lestrade. Albeit, younger and American.

"Do you own a dog?" I asked as Lucifer stepped outside his flat and closed the door. Lucifer rolled his eyes and broke out into a genuine smile.

"I have a dog," he said, the dark aura around him evaporating. "I wish I didn't, though."

"What sort of dog? I'm a dog person myself, never liked cats," I prodded a bit further, following Lucifer outside of the building and to his car. "Is he well trained?"

"He's a Malamute mix," Lucifer indicated the silver compact on the curb. "Just take whatever you can carry and dump it anywhere in my flat."

"I'll do that," I replied, taking the suitcase Lucifer handed me. I took note of the condition of the car. It was unusually cluttered, but not with rubbish, like many cars I'd seen. There were stacks of envelopes and loose papers on the passenger side, all of which seemed to be to or from a what appeared to be a newspaper called The USA Observer. The dashboard was cluttered with a wide range of maps of London, a camera, and sunglasses. Tourist-y. The little room that the back seats afforded was packed to the ceiling with suitcases.

When we had loaded up with all the suitcases we could carry, we returned to the flat. "What brings you here to England?" I asked.

"Business, don't get used to me, I'll only be here for a few months at most," Lucifer nearly dropped the bag he was holding as he tripped down the stairs "What sort of places do you recommend to visit? I don't have much free time, so I'd like to use it wisely. The London Bridge is near here, right?"

"You must mean Tower Bridge. That's the one that you see on postcards and such. The actual London Bridge isn't as amazing," I said after a moment of consideration. "It's right near Big Ben and the London Tower, so you can get them all in one shot." Lucifer looked slightly startled at my original statement.

"So I've been lied to my whole life?" He asked in a joking manner, fighting to get the door to his flat open without putting down any of his suitcases. I wondered if the door would just burst into flames from the intensity and frustration in his glare. "What sort of trick are you Brits trying to pull?"

I smiled a bit and waited uncomfortably as Lucifer finally put down a bag so that he could open the door with an empty hand. Footsteps rushed down the stairs above us, hitting half as many stairs as there actually were. Sherlock must've found something interesting to do. Without me. How thoughtful of him.

"So what about you?" Lucifer asked as he hauled his load through the door. "You lived in London your whole life?"

"Mostly, I spent a few years in Afghanistan as an army doctor, though," I replied, struggling to get the unusually wide suitcase I was dragging through the small doorway.

"Army doctor? Really? What brought you back? Got fed up?" Lucifer continued an almost mindless line of questioning as he stacked the bags and cases rather carelessly and roughly against the wall. I hoped that nothing inside them was breakable. "Served your term and dropped out? I was in the military for a while too. The other business I was involved in became too pressing for me to stay, though."

"I was invalided out. What-"

"Doesn't look it."

"Shot in the shoulder. What other business are you involved in that pulled you away from the military? Anything interesting?" I asked, curious. He had mentioned 'business' several times, but not defined it.

"No, certainly not interesting at all," Lucifer chuckled. "I'm a newspaper reporter."

_So if he was just a newspaper reporter, why would he be in London for _months_?_ _And with a dog? _I raised my eyebrows critically at the statement. Lucifer noticed.

"I am not actually here solely for business. Family problems, visiting friends, and touristing is also on the list," Lucifer said as he and I returned to the vehicle outside. "Not much time for the latter, though."

I noticed without surprise but with a slight tingle of dismay that Sherlock was nowhere in sight. A flash of frustration shot through me at the thought of being left with (most likely) the dull job while Sherlock got to go gallivanting around London. I shook my head to clear my thoughts and picked up an armful of bags. Lucifer had clambered into the car and was trying to tug a particularly difficult suitcase from underneath of one of the car seats. He froze suddenly.

"Is something wrong Mr. Lucifer? Shall I give it a go?" I asked, preparing to set down my load to assist him. For a moment, he didn't seem to hear me.

"No, sorry for spacing out. Please call me Luc, by the way," He scrambled out of the vehicle, abandoning the suitcase and sticking with the load he already had spread across the pavement. His voice was a bit halting and there was a look of furious concentration on his face. "This'll be the last load for now. Thanks for your help."

"Anytime," I replied, slightly bewildered as Lucifer-no, he said to call him Luc- shot past me and into the building.

"What did you get? Something useful, I hope," Sherlock's words weren't the most welcoming I have ever heard, but at least I interpreted his single word instruction right.

"A man named Lucas Lucifer moved into the 221a flat. He's here for a few months from America on various bits and pieces of business. He brought his dog," I listed off. "And he's got a car."

"Dog, yes," Sherlock muttered under his breath with a dark look. Then is attention returned to me. "And what about _him?_"

"He was… polite. Seemed to be under a lot of stress. He used to be in the military, but his work as a newspaper reporter took him away from it. I'd consider him a bit off."

"Anything else?"

"What do you mean?" I blinked hard and suddenly caught sight of my tea mug on the coffee table, pushed precariously close to the edge. I rescued it and sat heavily in the chair across from Sherlock. The tea was darker than I remembered it to be.

"You saw everything but never _truly_ saw anything," Sherlock sighed and tapped one of the papers, indicating that he wanted my attention focused on it. "Fortunately, I was a bit more productive."

"What, with your dashing off and vanishing act?"

"I took a look at his car while you were in his flat and took a look at his flat while you were at the car."

"Really?"

"His dog is not very friendly."

"Does that surprise you?"

"His dog is for his work, which puts him on the suspect list."

"Why? He's a newspaper reporter, not a military policeman."

"He wouldn't bring a dog to England unless it was a beloved pet, business, or for someone else. People who love their pets also love to talk about them, especially to people who are interested. He clearly did not want to talk much about his dog, giving you mostly only useless facts. Thus, the dog is either for business or he is taking care of it for someone else. Considering the fact that he would have little reason to lie to you about _owning _the dog, the dog is for business," Sherlock explained. "And newspaper reporter don't need dogs."

"That's what I thought. So maybe he's lying about being an newspaper reporter?" I asked. Sherlock nodded shortly. "What about the envelopes in his car?"

"Cover," Sherlock replied, shuffling through the papers that Mycroft had left and muttering; "my brother gave us enough paper to run a printing shop for a week, but there's only about one page of useful information."

I sloshed the cold tea in my mug and frowned at it. _Perfectly good tea gone to waste._ I didn't really want to drink it, but I didn't want to waste it either. I lifted the cup to my lips.

"You probably don't want to drink that," Sherlock said without looking up. I rolled my eyes and took a deep breath, peering into the mug for any signs of what my dear flatmate had done to it. He filled in for me when I could not figure it out. "Ink."

"Oh joy," I stood abruptly and marched to the kitchen, dumping the contaminated liquid down the drain. There was a hideous black stain inside the mug that I tried in vain to wash out. "Why, Sherlock?"

"I wanted to see if you would notice," came the reply from the sitting room. I ground my teeth and fought the urge to go and strangle the bastard. That was the fifth cup of tea directly ruined by him this week alone.

"Would you like to go out?"

"Where, exactly?" I asked, dropping the mug none to gently onto the counter. The stain was hopeless, Sherlock had ruined another mug too. I wondered briefly if it was still safe to drink out of.

"Oh, just on a jaunt."

"Why?"

"I want to take a look around the block," Sherlock replied, wrapping his scarf around his neck with a flourish as I reentered the living room. The vagueness of his statement made me wonder why he did not want to tell me what he was up to. He shoved one of the pages from the table into my hands.

"Memorize everything on this page," he instructed. I averted my attention to the names and faces on the page. The terrorist suspects. At the top of the page in loudly stated letters, it read: Known Affiliates of Unnamed Terrorist Organization Ad7. The people listed appeared perfectly normal. My expectancies of burly men who would stand out in a crowd were dashed to pieces at the sight of the pictures of everyday average joes. And a single 'jane.'

"So, what am I supposed to do when I come across one of these blokes on the street?" The words were meant to be sarcastic, but Sherlock answered anyway.

"Follow them and call me, of course."

I sighed heavily and followed my friend down the highly populated sidewalk, hardly managing to keep up with his long stride. I folded the paper into quarters and shoved it viciously in my pocket.

We spent the entire day rambling about London at a Sherlock-on-a-mission pace. He wouldn't tell me where we were going or why, and all his responses to my questions were clipped and harsh. I took the hint and followed quietly, glad for something to do, at the least. We returned to the flat in the early afternoon, where Sherlock instantly curled up like a cat on the couch and buried his nose in his laptop. My attempts to look over his shoulder were masterfully foiled by him several times, and he refused, once again, to tell me what he was up to. I went about making tea and watching telly for the remainder of the day.

It was a little past ten when I decided to turn in for the night. Of course, Sherlock only got the call from Lestrade once I was on the verge of falling asleep.

"John?" Sherlock hadn't even bothered to knock. I growled and rolled over, pulling my pillow over my head. Sherlock wasn't about to give up. "You are awake now. Lestrade called, we have an interesting murder to look at."

"I'd prefer looking at the inside of my eyelids right now," I mumbled in return.

"The body disappeared," Sherlock's tone changed slightly. He was trying to entice me into coming. "Someone stole it."

"Oh yes, everyone wants a corpse," I sat up and rubbed my face. "In fact, next time I see one I'll bring it home."

"Come along, John," Sherlock nearly waltzed out of the room. "I'll hire a cab."

I huffed in irritation as I pulled on my clothes and made my way outside. Sherlock was waiting with a cab, looking rather excited and impatient. The glitter that appeared in his eyes whenever he was on a case was more intense than any other time that day, despite the case Mycroft had dumped on him earlier.

"Hurry up," Sherlock's words were nearly inaudible. I shut the cab door behind me and we were off. Nighttime London rushed by as the cab weaved through the streets. Our destination wasn't far, the cab ride was less than ten minutes.

The moment the cab halted by a police car-blocked small residential street, Sherlock rushed through paying the cabbie and was out. I followed my excited friend down the street. An alleyway between two apartment buildings was where the police tape started, but there was only one officer in sight. He recognized Sherlock and motioned for us to go farther down the alley without a word. We progressed one-way down the alley, and two turns later, we found the crime scene.

I spotted extensive bloodstains on the ground by a pair of officers moments after Sherlock, who was already on a purposeful path towards the spot. I wandered up behind him as he immediately went to examining the bloodstained area. A trio of medical personnel caught my eye as I reached Sherlock. They were examining two men who were obviously civilians. One of the men stood up and turned around to point something out to the medical personnel.

The man was Lucas Lucifer.

_What is he doing here?_

**Updates from now on will be irregular, but hopefully often. I'm really loving writing this, but I have so many summer commitments that writing can't be a priority. Comments and reviews are appreciated!**


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